


Another Drop Too Much

by AuroraKant



Series: Winter Whumperland [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bruce Wayne loves his children, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Description of Poisoning, Poisoning, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28222602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraKant/pseuds/AuroraKant
Summary: He had learned to spot Batman’s movement in the darkest nights Gotham had to offer, and even if Dick was no longer Robin, he would still always recognize the way Bruce moved.His dad’s hand was softer than the ones that had touched Dick before. He tried to lean into it, but his body was a traitor – his body wouldn’t let him enjoy this simple human connection. Instead, it stole his breath.Or: During a gala Dick gets poisoned - Bruce is right by his side.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Winter Whumperland [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2053023
Comments: 30
Kudos: 257
Collections: Dick Grayson Whump





	Another Drop Too Much

**Author's Note:**

> Well, well, well.... yeah, I didn't keep up with the Winter Whumperland, but I sure as hell have a few fics left in store!   
> I really hope you enjoy this! And many thanks to [Ithil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IthilGalad75/profile) for beta reading!
> 
> Comments, Bookmarks and Kudos make me very happy!! <3

Dick noticed that something was wrong moments before he felt it.

There were eyes following him everywhere, and while that was not unusual for a Wayne Gala, it felt different, nonetheless. It made his skin crawl and his stomach turn. He turned around, his sweeping gaze scanning the ballroom, but there was no danger in sight.

In the far corner he could see Cass in her lilac suit talk to Tim, dressed in black as always. He could even hear Bruce laugh boisterously somewhere in the crowd – and if Brucie laughed, no threat had been noticed by the hulking shadow of Batman.

Dick was almost ready to calm down, when his body reacted to what his mind had already known. 

His vision doubled and his stomach rebelled. Before he knew it, he was leaning against the wall behind him. His button down was clinging to his body, sweat making the fabric damp, and Dick felt the first twinges of panic well up inside of him.

Had he been roofied?

No… he wasn’t sure, couldn’t be sure with how the world swayed in front of his eyes, but being roofied felt different. He knew that at least – growing up, a few too many members of the Gotham upper crust had decided to try their luck in such a despicable way with the oldest Wayne heir. No, this felt different.

Dick wasn’t quite sure if that made it better or worse.

Maybe he should ask for help? Inform his family of his predicament?

Yes, that was a good idea, Dick only needed to… pain raced down his veins, until his body was on fire. His skin tingled, ants crawling through his intestines… where was the pain coming from? Dick’s knees buckled under the strain, his body hitting the floor.

Dick barely felt it, his muscles preoccupied with seizing up.

Finally, someone else noticed that something was wrong, Dick no longer able to ask for help himself.

“Mr. Grayson? Mr. Grayson, are you alright? Help! HELP! I think he is having a seizure!”

Hands were touching him, and Dick wanted to bat them away, but his arms no longer listened to him. Instead, Dick had to bear the unwelcome touch, had to endure the cold and the whispers and the yells. There was fire burning through his body, and yet Dick noticed that he was shaking.

It hurt.

Why did it hurt?

His thoughts were growing foggier, his breathing more labored, when a giant shadow fell over him, the figure striking and dangerous. Bruce. His dad. Even Dick’s struggling brain could recognize his dad. Always. He had learned to spot Batman’s movement in the darkest nights Gotham had to offer, and even if Dick was no longer Robin, he would still always recognize the way Bruce moved.

His dad’s hand was softer than the ones that had touched Dick before. He tried to lean into it, but his body was a traitor – his body wouldn’t let him enjoy this simple human connection. Instead, it stole his breath.

For a few precious moments no air entered Dick’s lungs. The panic returned with full force, reemerging from the corner Dick had pushed it into earlier. His heart raced in its search for oxygen, his throat contracted and ached.

Why was it so hot? So cold?

Why did it hurt?

“Breathe, chum… one… two… three… yes. Just breathe. Everything is alright. Everything is fine… just breathe, chum. Do it for your old man.”

Bruce was here.

Since when was Bruce here?

Why was Dick laying on the floor?

Tears escaped his eyes, so Dick closed them. The world was a confusing blur of color, the voices and noises too much for his aching brain. Maybe if he slept… there was a steel band covering his chest, slowly pressing down on his lungs. Had it always been this hard to breathe?

“Dick. Don’t give up! Stay with me… stay awake, please. The paramedics will be here soon! You don’t… you don’t have to stay awake for long, just until the doctors are here, okay? Chum?”

Bruce sounded almost panicked. It was rare for Bruce to panic like this – the Batman was the most controlled person Dick knew. Sometimes Dick was envious of Bruce’s ability to just push all emotions down and focus, and sometimes Dick hated his dad for being able to compartmentalize in situations in which Dick needed to talk.

There was a cool hand on his forehead. Dick liked it. He liked the closeness. The tenderness. It felt… he was young again, staying home from school with a fever, and Bruce was sitting next to him on the couch, reading reports while Dick napped. Bruce tended to check on him like this: his cold hand pressed against Dick’s hot and sweaty forehead. Pure bliss.

But it wasn’t just heat rolling through Dick’s stomach – a wave of nausea hit him like a train. He needed to- he needed to throw up! Dick was retching, something sour blocking his airways, something hot making it uncomfortable to exist… The nausea wouldn’t abate, and a moment of clarity allowed Dick to fear for his life like this: suffocating on his own bile.

But then the cold hands were back, slowly turning him on his side. Spit and sick dripped from his lips, air once again returning to his lungs.

“Soon, chum. They have almost reached us…  _ soon _ . I believe in you… you are going to stay with me, and you will be here when we find out what happened. You will be right by my side.”

It would be a sweet sentiment, but Dick was just so tired. Every part of his body ached, his heart protesting every beat it made, his lungs struggling through every breath he took.

Maybe he could just sleep?

Maybe he could just slip away?

But no… Bruce was asking him to stay. His dad wanted him to remain where he was. Awake. Alive. Whole.

Dick would do his best.

Commotion reached his ears, the noise surrounding him changing its tune once more. It was no longer the gossipy murmur of gala guests, nor the concerned whisper of his friends and family comforting him – oh, Tim and Cass had to be close by! Dick didn’t want to die in front of them – instead, it was the professional sound of people who knew what they were doing.

“The paramedics are here… they are going to take care of you, Dick.”

Dick struggled to open his eyes, the task impossible even in the face of the unknown, and yet he could feel the exact moment Bruce let go off him, and someone else took over. The new set of hands was gloved for once, and it tasted like rubber when the fingers pushed into his mouth to make sure his airways were free.

Dick tried to protest the rough handling of his body – but he wasn’t even sure if a whimper managed to escape him. He was just so tired. He was just in so much pain.

In his right mind, Dick might have been embarrassed. Or he would have cried – the haze that made it hard to think, also made it impossible to feel the full weight of whatever was happening within his body. Maybe it was a blessing that confusion colored his thoughts heavy, and that exhaustion pulled his eyelids closed…

Maybe it was better like this, with Dick unable to see the look of horror on Bruce’s face.

“Airways free, 55 BPM – keep the defi on standby. I don’t like this… breathing is slow and not very deep, oxygen levels by 92% and dropping-“

The paramedics sounded so earnest, so strict… they almost reminded him of Bruce. But the familiar warmth was missing. The softness that always undercut Bruce’s harshness without fault. Their words… Dick couldn’t really follow them.

They were talking about him, but Dick wasn’t entirely sure anymore if he even existed. They were talking about his… health? Maybe they could explain to him why it was so hard to breathe… why each breath tasted sour and stale…

“He is going into shock! Damn, ready the-“

But Dick couldn’t hear them, the world turning dark behind his closed eyes. The last thing he noticed was a hand – a hand he knew – and the words: “Please, chum… Dick! Don’t go!”

There was an oxygen mask covering his face, and an IV in the crook of his elbow. It was daytime. What day? Dick had no idea. His head was swimming, thoughts slipping in and out of it like Koi exploring a new pond.

He was laying in a hospital bed, the ceiling white and sterile, the room smelling of antiseptic and sickness. Dick hated hospitals, but something told him that he had a very good reason for being in one. He just… he just needed to figure out what kind of reason that was.

His eyes continued their search through the room, but no clue presented itself to Dick. There was no one sleeping by his bedside, no tray of food forgotten on a table. He was alone in the room – and he felt like shit.

Shit, high on painkillers maybe, but still shit.

Slowly Dick forced himself to move each part of his body, relief flooding his system every time his limbs complied. All arms and legs accounted for, and nothing felt broken. Well, except for his chest and the tight band of pain pressing down on it.

Finally, the door to his room got pushed open, a sigh of relief escaping Dick. He hated hospitals, and he hated waking up alone even more. It was Bruce who stepped through the doorway, exhaustion stark on his face.

His dad looked tired and worn – Dick instantly knew it was the worry over him that had pushed Bruce deep into self-destruction. He wanted to comfort Bruce, but the oxygen mask made it impossible to talk – instead he whimpered, embarrassment flushing his cheeks.

Bruce’s gaze found Dick’s immediately, and the joy illuminating Bruce’s face when he saw his son well and awake was enough to quell any lasting embarrassment Dick might have felt.

“You’re awake!”

Dick sent him his best ‘yeah, duh’ look, and Bruce’s answering smile told him the man had understood Dick just fine. Even without words. Not that the two of them had needed words in a long, long time.

Bruce stepped closer to Dick, his steps careful and poised. Vicky Vale had once described Bruce Wayne as a “bull in a china shop”, but Dick knew that that was a load of bull. Pun intended. When Dick saw Bruce move, it was always controlled, just like everything about Bruce Wayne was.

He could see it now as well, the fear hidden deep inside Bruce to accidentally hurt Dick, to accidentally make it worse.

In a different situation Dick would have offered comfort, but as he was the one currently laying in a hospital bed, he raised an eyebrow instead. The question was clear: What happened?

“Poison. You were poisoned. They are still running tests to figure out what exactly the substance you consumed was… but poison.”

Confusion rippled through Dick, and a questioning sound escaped him. When…? How…?

“It was in your drink. At least, that’s our working theory. The paramedics were almost too late… Thank God they did notice it, though… it was almost too late when they gave you the Naproxen – and they still had to reanimate you.”

Bruce’s shoulders had tensed up again, his voice growing carefully blank as he told Dick what had happened. Dick could only imagine how horrible it must have been to stand by and watch as your partner… as your son received CPR.

But Dick also remembered something else: Bruce’s voice telling him to hold on. Bruce had been right there, had stayed with Dick, telling him to keep on living.

And Dick had followed that order.

He was still alive.

His “thank you” was voiceless, his lips hard to read behind the foggy plastic of the mask, but Dick knew that Bruce understood him, nonetheless. The two of them were like this. Few words, lots of trust.

“I- I’m glad… no, I am relieved, you made it, chum. I couldn’t bear losing you – so no more drinking poison at parties just to get out of them, do you understand me?”

And Dick did.

He saw Bruce’s horrible attempt at humor as the question that it was. He saw the “are we okay?” and he heard the relief and joy and fear. He listened to Bruce’s fears, and he knew that Batman would take over soon, and that together they would find the assailant.

Dick smiled.

He was okay. And as long as he had any say in it, he wouldn’t drink any poison either. Not even to get out of a gala. 


End file.
